Name: Fyr Harnann
Age: 30
Height: 6'5"
Weight: 285 lbs
Race: Human

Weapons & Equipment:

• A rather large, one-handed axe that is a family heirloom. It has been forged with woodwork in mind and has several runes etched into it.
• Round shield made out of solid Frostwood itself and reinforced with some metal linings at vital points such as the center or the rim.
• Traveling clothes: They are meant to suit several climate zones by means of taking on and off different pieces. TTere are his cloth pants with fur padded inside and a shirt of the same making for standard conditions. In the cold, he can make his shoulders look twice as broad as they already are just by wrapping himself in another, much thicker layer of fur that probably has been a large bear once. And the searing heat of the desert ? Well, he still has his bare skin...
• Large waterskin
• Various small pouches filled with some medicinal herbs and cloth to treat wounds, dried meat and a few silver coins.

Skills:
Wild beasts, timber and rocks do not carry swords, so Fyr has never learned to use weapons himself in a manner specialized against other people. As primitive and worthy of improvement as his 'style' might appear however, years of harsh environmental circumstances, labor and natural inclination from birth have forged him into an intimidating individual who can put a lot of sheer strength and momentum behind whatever move he wants to make -- even if it's not a particularly fast one.

Fyr has been used to live in close contact with the wild nature around him since he's been a young boy. If he can treat wounds of animals, he can also try and treat people's wounds. These Southerners might not have the many mysterious caverns or Frostwoods, but trying to tame or just take over a horse or camel, or maybe to make that venomous scorpion not sting you, or discerning edible plants from the lethal ones, can be just as useful. Reading tracks might give a hint about where to go or not to go as well.


Magic:
The runes on his axe are not just decoration, but are actually a piece of dwarven craftmanship that can act as a catalyst for the wielder to more effectively tap into his or her own body's reserves: Strike harder, run faster, feel less pain and be as relentless to yourself as you are to your environment -- just in case you find yourself lost in a snowstorm, surprised by a wild beast whose cavern you deemed to be a safe shelter for the night or are just confronted with too high a workload. Fyr has not yet mastered the art to the fullest extent however.


Personality:
In spite of his quite intimidating appearance, Fyr can very much be around other people without escalating things into a brawl. He is not fond of killing or even just hurting people, that's not the way he has grown up and was socialized. Comradeship has been an important element of his survival so far, but his very recent experiences with people who, in reality, were slavers who set him up, might have made him a lot more careful for the moment when it comes to gathering new friends. That also points to a more general issue: He is unfamiliar with the environment he currently lives in as gaining knowledge about that has been the whole point of his journey in the first place.

Behind all that brawn there is also brain, but his mind is a not so experienced one. Even though he certainly has the necesssary intelligence, becoming a scientist or even just a moderately good chess player would still be a steep learning curve.

When Fyr's not busy working out in order to keep in shape or doing other things, he can endulge himself in food and drink very much. It will spell disaster on his or his sponsor's coin purse though.


Biography:
Fyr was born in Arnsk, a relatively small settlement in the Ispar mountains that, even by the nation's standards, is in a rather isolated position in terms of geography. Advanced cities where all beings live together in comfort ? Not there. It is bitterly cold for most of the year, no less snowy and the main source of income are the large Frostwood trees and local silver deposits unterground.

These two are professions that, given the circumstances, neither men nor dwarves would be capable of pursuing and living off for long were it not for the sturdy beasts of the region to assist them. Fyr was a caretaker, one of the villagers responsible to tame, train, feed and inspect the more or less large animals that serve as Arnsk's food and additional workforce. The first lession ? Trying not to be eaten. By far not all of them are harmless mammals, some are even used in the town's guard once sufficiently pacified.

Fyr started picking up experience in that matter early on and found his work highly preferable to monotonously hacking away at timber or going underground with those grumpy dwarves -- not that he hadn't to do a lot of that from time to time as well. What he didn't learn there though was which end of the sword was the one to go in his hand and which one to go into his opponent's guts. Arnsk was just remote enough of a location not to have that many opponents in the first place, at least not of the visible kind. His father, one of the foremen in the silver mine, died of a mysterious desease that had been plaguing many of those down there ever since. Fyr was 28 at this point.

Stuck in subsequent melancholy, he thought that now would be a point in time better suited than any else to fulfill the needs of a long-standing tradition in the Harnann family: At least once in a life, every family member should go on some sort of journey that would take him or her far outside the limited bounds of Arnsk, preferably even across Ispar's borders themselves. The idea behind that tradition was founded in the rather open society of the province: see other landscapes, other people, other cultures and push the horizon of your own mind beyond the limits imposed by the snowy mountains and deep forests at home. For Fyr, it seemed to be the perfect attempt to overcome his grief.

What he actually found further South was something very different though. He doesn't like the heat, but even more he dislikes the fact that his naivity and unfamiliarity have made him such an easy prey for slavers to catch. He doesn't even really know where he is right now, but he certainly wants to leave even if that would require a lot of assistance.

Name: Lapis Dustwalker
Age: 30
Height: 5’6
Weight: 140
Class: ???, Nomad
Race: Human
Appearance: Lapis is a dusky-skinned woman with a sturdy build and impassive face. She can turn on the charm for potential customers, but more often than not, she gives very little away. Her skin is scarred and weathered from years of being battered by sandstorms, hard work, and unyielding sun. Her dark brown hair is short and shaggy, a clearly practical cut. She rarely lets it reach her shoulders. Her eyes are ruddy brown and narrowed in suspicion more than she’d like. She stands proudly out of necessity; it wouldn’t do to project weakness. But her smile when she relaxes is warm and disarming.

Weapons & Equipment: She has a covered wagon with tarps, poles, a collapsible wooden stall, and crates filled with her wares, mostly utility items like cooking pots, stoneware, raw linens, and woven rugs. She stores her money in a leather drawstring pouch that hangs across her body at all times. The cord is braided to keep it from snapping. She owns a couple serviceable daggers, one stored away in a locked crate and the other strapped to her waist. Her clothes are worn, but well-made: loose, cotton-based clothing suited to desert living, complete with a couple headwraps. She has a few changes of clothes. A small bow, a quiver of bone arrows, a coil each of rope and wire, rolls of parchment, a few quills and inkpots, a leather-bound ledger, a copper cooking pot, a set of spices, and a handful of bone utensils and dishware for eating and cleaning game also occupy her locked crate. Railed shelves lining the interior of her wagon hold her preserved food: dried and salted meats, braids of various herbs, and jars of all things jellied and pickled. She is down to her last hundred silver.

Skills and Abilities: She has what would generally be considered “street smarts”; she knows the places that are unsafe to wander at night and how to avoid the city guard. She is a decent hunter with her dagger or bow and arrow, and can set a couple simple traps. She can generally defend herself in a one-on-one fight, but is by no means an expert in combat. Her greatest defense is to avoid the fight; failing that, she is an excellent runner. Her speed, dexterity, and stamina are higher than average. She has an eye for quality artisan work and cannot be fooled by counterfeit coin. Her knack for finding food in the roughest, most desolate of terrains has kept her and those in her care alive; her creativity with spices keeps them happy. Her trade has enabled her to be passably fluent in a variety of languages, though she would struggle to follow a rapid or high-brow conversation in any language not her own. She has a good mind for figures.

Bio: Lapis Dustwalker grew up in the nation of Roh, running a traveling merchant stall with her family. They rotated throughout the major cities of the desert country, withstanding the harsh, exposed terrain in between with resourcefulness and pure grit. The Dustwalkers started out a proud, numerous clan; but just recently, the last of her relatives, her uncle Kyanar, passed away in his sleep. Business was already dwindling; now, with even her elderly uncle’s meager help gone, she is struggling to make ends meet.
She’s seen enough misery and violence to last her a lifetime, but it doesn’t stop her from harboring a stubborn, yet cautious compassion for those who surround her. People are just trying to get by, and it’s hard for her to fault them when they turn to crime. She’s reformed many a would-be thief by simply putting them to work at her stall for the promise of a hot meal and a seat out of the sun. Her most precious values are common sense, fairness, and integrity. Keep a promise to Lapis, and you’ll earn her respect and loyalty. Breaking your word to her earns you her eternal disgust. However, that’s not to say she doesn’t know the value of a well-placed lie–if it’s for a good cause. Survival, righting a wrong, or pursuit of the truth: all good motivations in her book. Her temper is swift and vicious; her anger fuels her in a fight, almost like a berserker’s rage. But she’s quick to calm when the adrenaline recedes.
Lapis has heard every conceivable story about the king’s assassination. When rumors abound like that, it’s difficult to discern the truth, so she largely ignores the gossip. She prefers to make up her own mind based on what she can see with her own two eyes, and unless some wizard can magick her back in time to witness the murder herself, she’ll not pass judgment, thanks very much. It’s nothing to do with her anyway. Her focus is on her failing business–unless some strange event or terrible misfortune were to befall her…

Name: Lapis Dustwalker
Age: 30
Height: 5’6
Weight: 140
Class: ???, Nomad
Race: Human